Guilty
by CircleofStones
Summary: For Princess Anna, being a hero means sacrificing things that were once dear to her: pride, wealth...love. Elliot is gone, but will his memory come between her and the chance to love again?
1. Nightmares

"_Choose me, Rosanna. You can't just let them all die." _

_His eyes watched her, imploring and determined. Did he really mean it? How could he be so confident? _

_But then, Elliot had always been confident. He was always pushing her to act, to help; pushing her beyond what she thought she was capable of. He was so honest, so righteous…he made her ashamed of her own uncertainties. She had nothing like his righteous zeal._

_Were it not for that righteous fervor and sense of justice, they would not be here now. _

_She looked from him to the simple villagers, scared and shaking. They had done nothing wrong. They had merely sought the impossible, and their courage would be rewarded with death. There was only the tiniest glimmer of hope in their eyes, overwhelmingly drowned by something else that chilled her to see: resignation. They were defeated already. _

_She knew what they saw. She was a princess. When was the last time royalty had helped its people? They had no reason to trust her, no faith in her name…they only had the brazen audacity to hope. _

_In that moment, she understood Elliot's conviction._

_"You know it has to be me, Anna," he whispered. _

_She lifted her eyes to his again. He nodded ever so subtly, both demanding and encouraging her answer. If she spared him over the villagers, he would never look at her the same way. She would be a killer of innocents, no better than Logan. _

_It took every ounce of her being not to collapse into a crumpled pile of misery on the cold tile, but she refused to let Logan see her pain. She was _not_ a child. Fighting back the tears that already blurred her vision, she raised a trembling hand and pointed to Elliot. _

_Only Elliot seemed unsurprised. There was a collective from the shocked and relieved villagers, and even Logan arched a delicate eyebrow. But his discomposure was fleeting; his face was instantly a cool mask of indifference again. He waved an idle hand to the soldiers holding Elliot in place, who seized his arms to take him away. He didn't fight them. _

_"Wait." Her voice was a choked sob, drowned by the commotion of the gathered assembly. "Logan, stop." _

_Logan was already gone. She pushed through the crowd to Elliot, who was being peacefully marched to the side door. She reached for him, all her royal pride abandoned as she realized the full scope of what she had done. She seized his hands, but his fingers slipped through hers. He said nothing, only smiled back at her as he was pulled in one direction. Walter had reached Anna, and he held her back from following. She blinked, and Elliot was gone. _

Her memory began to twist. The throne room faded around her, warping into the sinister torture that had been haunting her for weeks. She clung to the dream anyway, clung to Elliot just a little longer, and ignored the pain that threatened to swallow her soul.

_The ghost of his voice floated back to her, calling her name through the unforgiving door that the soldiers had slammed in her face. Still he tried to comfort her, to reassure her…_

_Or did he condemn her? Hadn't she loved him? How could she have killed him?_

_"Anna!"_

The tears flowed freely down her cheeks, pooling into the pillow that she refused to acknowledge. She wasn't asleep. She _wasn't_.

_Elliot…His arms wrapped around her, or his hand encompassing hers. Here, she could still let herself feel his phantom touch._

She dared to let herself imagine how the day might have gone. They could have spent a leisurely day in the gardens, oblivious to the sad events of the day. The villagers' deaths would have been nothing but another tally in the book of Logan's corruption, and she and Elliot would have commiserated together. She never would have had to sacrifice him for their sakes.

But the people needed her. She knew that now.

"Princess Rosanna?"

_Why couldn't she save him? Why were their lives more important than his? Why—_

"Princess!"

The dream was snatched from her, and Elliot with it. Dark eyes faded to blue, and brown hair drained to a filthy blond. Ben Finn knelt over her, a concerned expression twisting his usually lighthearted face. She chased away the image of Elliot, but his face still haunted the space just behind her eyelids. Reality was back, and all its unpleasant truths.

She pushed herself up and scooted back on her bedroll, away from Ben. If he saw the tears, he didn't say anything. He became himself again, his expression detached and familiar.

"You were thrashing a bit, Princess. Nightmares?"

She could only nod numbly. The thing that haunted her sleep—that torturous memory from hell itself—was far worse than a nightmare, but she doubted the captain was interested in her troubles. Ben was all laughter and easy smiles, and her misfortunes were too heavy to unload onto her new friend and ally just yet.

"No shame in that," he assured her. "I find myself dreamin' about hollow men most every night now. I used to sleep with a gun in my hand until I nearly took off the Major's head when he came to wake me for watch duty. It took weeks before his moustache was the right length again."

Anna could only imagine what kinds of words the Major must have had for Ben, and the sincere smile came more easily to her lips that she would have expected. Satisfied with her response, Ben stood and offered her his hand up.

The smell of the sewers was mercifully muted, but she still gave a wide berth to the trapdoor leading into it. Page's house was in a forgotten section of the city, a building that Reaver Industries hadn't bothered to tear down. He had merely crowded it with his factories, which made it inaccessible except through the sewers. There was nothing through the windows but grimy light and bleak buildings, but it was ideal for Page's band of rebels.

Even so, the house itself was mainly used for meetings and guests. Most of Page's crew—herself included—slept more directly in the sewers. They were accustomed to the smell and most of their sensitivities were already destroyed by long days of factory work. Anna felt as though she was already desensitized to the worse of it, but Walter and Ben made no attempt to hide their distaste for the sewers. They shared the house between themselves.

Walter's knapsack was still on his bedroll, but he wasn't around.

"Breakfast," Ben told her, interpreting her gaze. "Nothing gets you ready for the day like a bowl of soggy grey mush in the middle of a slimy sewer. Walter sent me to check up on you and take you down if you're feeling up to it, but I can let you rest a little longer, if you'd like…"  
"No, I'm fine." She winced as she spoke. She tested her face gingerly and found a bruise along the line of her jaw. Reaver's party had not been kind to her. She could already feel a twinge in her leg when she stepped, but the light here was too gloomy to fully examine the extent of her injuries. She fell into step beside Ben, inviting him to lead the way. He wasn't going to argue.

"Right, then. Let's get you to Walter before he has my head for dragging my feet."


	2. Better Left Unsaid

"Bloody hell," Walter laughed as they entered. "I'd forgotten what a mess you were. Does it hurt much?"

Jack welcomed Ben and Anna to the map room with a playful bark, and Walter and Page looked up from their places at one of the tables, breaking off in the middle of what appeared to be a heated conversation. Anna was quickly discovering that any conversation that involved Page tended to be heated. As much as she appreciated the rebel's hospitality and newly pledged support, she was exhausted by Page's open distrust.

Anna only responded vaguely to her cursory greeting and lowered herself into the open chair beside Walter. Ben fell eagerly into place beside Page, taking every opportunity to scoot his chair closer to hers if she looked away for a second. He didn't get many chances; Page's paranoia seemed to be in full swing today.

"Not really," Anna answered Walter. She spoke slowly so as not to tax her jaw too much, but already the pain was ebbing, or at least numbing. Of everything that came with being a hero, she decided that quicker healing might just be her favorite part. "Not as much as it did, anyway."

"Well, I fixed you up as best I could, but you're going to have a scar." He gestured obscurely to her face. She ran her fingers lightly over her skin, flinching every time they encountered a welt. Walter grimaced as he watched her cautious movements, as though the sight alone was painful for him.

"Is it that bad?"

She didn't remember much of what happened after they left Reaver's. It had been a long, slow journey back from Millfields, and each step was fuzzier than the last. She vaguely remembered someone guiding her to her bed, and the bandages on her hands were evidence of medical attention, but she had already been dead to the world long before they were back at the sewers.

Page didn't look too scratched up—was she really that much worse? She wasn't sure she wanted to know. The others avoided meeting her gaze; like a light that you can't help but look at even as it burns your eyes.

She wiped off her spoon with a handful of dirt—the alternative being to clean the porridge off with her mouth, and she didn't think she could stomach that—and tried to examine her reflection in it.

Her skin was grey and sallow, and the mottled surface of the spoon only exaggerated her blackened eye and the different shades of bruises that colored her face. She found the scar: a puckered line of skin that extended from one side of her forehead to her cheek, just cutting through her eyebrow and the corner of her eye. She looked little better than a hollow man herself. She gave a weak chuckle and lowered the spoon.

"I told you to stay with me," Page spoke up defensively. "It was a safe spot."

Anna was pleased to hear the slightest note of shame in Page's voice. It had been a safe spot, yes, and Page had had good intentions. But if she had done as Page had, they would still be at Reaver's, picking off the hobbes and sand furies one by one. She held herself back from voicing the thoughts aloud and busied herself instead with shaking her hair free of its braid. It would cover the nastiest of her injuries until they were healed a little better, and maybe then her companions could look at her without flinching. Ben took advantage of the silence to lift the conversation away with a playful remark to Page.

Anna smiled to herself subtly, hidden beneath the waves of hair she was struggling to detangle. It was worth keeping Ben around if for no other reason than to bother Page. That woman needed to smile more.

She glanced at Page and found the usual stony, unimpressed expression on her face as she listened to Ben tell how he had inadvertently trimmed the Major's moustache.

_Avo, did _nothing_ amuse that woman?_

"She means well," Walter murmured quietly to her. He must have overheard her scoff. Anna listened silently. She had moved on to a thorough examination of the state of her limbs. Her arms and torso were covered with fresh scratches, but they would heal. Her muscles protested when she tested them with the basic motions of her sword, but they still functioned. She would survive another day, after all.

"You have to remember what kind of life she has led. She has seen more despair than anyone else I know. Just give her time to get used to us."

Anna didn't doubt that Page had seen despair. She had seen the orphans in Bowerstone, the piles of corpses that no one could afford to bury properly…she didn't deny the horrors of Bowerstone Industrial.

_But had Page ever had to pass a death sentence on the man she loved?_

She glanced at Page and Ben again. Page's arms were crossed icily across her chest and she glared sideways at the soldier, daring him to move closer. He dared.

_Definitely_ worth keeping Ben around.

Walter misinterpreted her smile and drew back with a satisfied expression. Anna didn't bother to correct him. She was testing her focus with her pistol now, aiming at the various pieces of junk that filled the sewer. Her hand shook if she held her gun in one spot too long, and she found her vision blurring if she tried to focus on the more distant objects.

"I hope your plans don't involve any mercenaries today, or I'll likely have a few more scars," she told Walter, placing her pistol back in its holster with a frown. She leaned back lazily in her chair. Then, more seriously, "Are there even more allies to find in Albion? Where else can we go?"

"There are a few tiny outposts we might try, but we're not going anywhere until we hear from Major Swift. He'll be sending recruits our way as he can, and we need to be here for a while to make sure there are no problems." He nodded at Page, and her eyes narrowed.

"Make sure I don't kill your precious soldiers, is that what you mean, Walter?" The comment was icy and very obviously directed at Ben, though she still resolutely avoided looking at him. Ben drew back ever so slightly, frowning and frustrated.

"That's exactly what I mean," Walter rumbled reprovingly. "We need their support as much as we need yours. So you have the day to yourself, for now," he addressed himself to Anna again. "This might be a good time for you to look around Bowerstone, get to know the place. It's never too late for a few more people on your side if you can find them, and I'll let you know the minute I hear anything. But in the meantime I'm off to The Riveter's Rest for a drink."

"_No_, you can_not_ come with me," Page was saying to Ben. "It's bad enough you're here in the first place, I don't need you seeing every part of what it is I do."

"Ah, c'mon. You might need someone at your back if you run into trouble."

"The hell I will. I'm leaving, and if you follow me I'll take your head off, I don't care what Walter says."

She strode away before Ben could argue anymore. She left through a small door at the back of the room; Anna heard a definitive click as Page locked it from the other side. Ben looked bothered for a moment, but he said a quick goodbye to Anna and chased after Walter, whose long strides had already carried him well away.

Anna was left by herself again, and she shivered. It was easy to put on a strong face when surrounded by friends, less so when she was alone with her thoughts.

_Alone, where the silence summons phantom screams and innocent faces_.

She could feel it already, chipping at her confident mask, threatening to pull her back into her nightmare. The world turned red every time she blinked. Idleness and gloom did not sit well together.

She whistled abruptly to Jack and he hopped up from the pile of grimy blankets that served as his bed. She needed _something_ to do, and the first thing, her stomach reminded her, needed to be a proper breakfast.

* * *

In spite of Bowerstone Industrial being a port town, it was next to impossible to find a decent spot from which she could admire the inherent romanticism of the ocean and eat her breakfast in peace. Drunkards and whores lined every dockside street, begging for one thing or another, and even the most remote corners of the city were furnished with the marks of their trades. It wasn't long before she decided to abandon her idea of an ocean view, and instead found a quiet back alley with a few patches of grass over the cobblestones and even a tree against which she could lean.

Jack sat with his head on her lap, nibbling gratefully at the pieces of mutton she gave him. She had already finished her own meal, a few pieces of bread and cheese, but she lingered a little longer in her isolated corner. The air was a little fresher here, unlike the caustic city air that stung the open wounds of her face. She was hidden from all but the most determined rays of sunlight here—fewer and fewer as the clouds continued to crowd out the sky—but breezes whistled often through the leaves above her head, carrying the smells and sounds of Bowerstone. She ignored most of them, having no taste for the industrial city's avenues of "pleasure," but there was one sound that caught her attention.

"…you _rat,_ Nigel Ferret. Get the hell off my property!"

She knew she should have known better than to expect even one day of peace so long as Logan still commanded Albion. The shouting continued, followed by unmistakable gunshots. Anna was on her feet in an instant. She threw the last of the mutton to Jack and strapped her blade over her shoulder.

_Gods, but she was tired of the killing_.

It wasn't hard to find the source of the noise. The woman's voice drowned everything else in the secluded street. It was coming from within a sorry, decrepit building with barred windows and a crumbling front porch. The yard itself was fenced with a few withered hedges short enough to walk over. She could just make out the faded, roughly carved sign hanging to the side of the door: _Bowerstone Shelter for the Homeless. Orphans Welcome_.

_Elliot always wanted to adopt a child…_

"No. Not now." The words slipped through her gritted teeth. She needed to focus. She couldn't afford to be distracted by whispers and the 'what ifs' of another life.

There was a couch stuck midway through the door, and a man sprawled in the yard. Anna went to him first. He wasn't shot. It seemed as though he had just fallen off the porch. _Or been pushed,_ she realized, hearing another definitive thud from inside. Anna could still hear the woman's voice, desperate and angry.

"You _leave_ it. Get your _filthy_ hands—"

She left the man where he lay. The planks of the porch groaned ominously beneath her footsteps, but she was able to get herself across it and around the couch. She hesitated just long enough for her eyes to adjust to the gloomy light inside. It was chaos.

The house was teeming with burly men who were wandering freely throughout the house, ignoring the shouting of the woman in the middle of it all. She was fumbling to load her pistol, but they didn't care. They were prying pictures from the wall, oblivious to the holes they were leaving behind, tipping bookshelves, slashing pillows…Anna heard a crackling smash from a room upstairs and had to jump back as a bundle of something landed at her feet.

The woman saw her from across the room.

"Help me. _Please_!" she shouted.

Anna fired a blast of ice up into the face of the grinning man who leaned over to make sure his things had landed, but the chaos continued around her. She knew she had a few seconds before the others would realize what was happening.

She drove her elbow hard into the neck of the man nearest to her, and he dropped in a crumpled heap. Heading in the direction of the woman, she grabbed the next two from behind and released a small shock. The heavy brass lamp they were struggling to support landed on their feet. The last one, having heard the confused howl of his companions, snarled at her and drew his knife. Anna ducked from his first swipe and pushed him through the window he had just finished smashing. She could hear Jack growling outside, daring the man to move again. The house fell silent, and Anna hoped it was because the rest had the good sense to run away.

"What did these men want with you?" she asked the woman, who was panting against a wall.

"They're here to steal from me because I refused to give their boss some money. This is _my_ shelter, these are _my _things." She paused, and her breathing became less labored. "Thank you. My name is Linda." She offered her hand to Anna.

"Anna. Would you like some help getting your couch back inside?"

Linda scowled. "Yes. Those weasels were after everything, weren't they? But they didn't get very far with that couch. I made sure of it." She was grumbling more to herself now, and she sprinkled her sentence with muttered curses. Anna merely smiled.

Anna took the half of the couch that was already outside the door, trying to ignore the renewed creaking beneath her feet. She was taller and heavier than Linda, but she was also stronger, and the couch had become jammed in the door at a weird angle when the mercenaries had dropped it.

She looked back inside to make sure that Linda was ready, and saw the mercenary with his gun at Linda's head. He cocked it. The noise caught Linda's attention, but Anna was faster. She drew her pistol and fired a single shot.

At first, she thought she had missed. The mercenary's face was plastered with his stupid grin, and it was Linda who swayed weakly, but the mercenary took a few steps backwards and toppled over. Anna hopped back inside to make sure he was truly the last of them. His knapsack of stolen goods spilled around him.

"Bastard," Linda swore. She gathered the bag to rummage through it, muttering to herself, but she abruptly froze. Linda's mask cracked and her tongue froze in her mouth. She sat down heavily on the half of the couch that was still inside. She dropped the bag, clinging only to a picture.

Anna could only see the back of it. A dark liquid that smelled of alcohol dripped from the corner. Anna glanced at the sack, where she could see the shards of the beer bottle that she had likely torn apart with her shot. Linda ignored the beer that continued to pool on her dress, tracing instead the outline of the hole that had been blown through the center of the portrait.

"I'm so sorry, Linda," she whispered. She didn't know whether to comfort the woman or leave. Linda shook her head and her self-assured tone returned.

"You've nothing to be sorry for. You saved my life, and the rest of my house. This—" she waved vaguely at the picture still clutched in her trembling hand "—this is nothing. I've been trying to make myself get rid of this thing for weeks now. It's only my childhood sweetheart, but he's dead now." She laughed weakly to herself, refusing to take her eyes from the destroyed image. "Always thought we would be married someday. No use dwelling on that now, right?"

She tossed the picture carelessly on the couch, as though trying to prove her strength and gathered up the bag. "I'll be right back, soon as I've taken care of the rest of this junk."

Anna waited until her footsteps had disappeared completely before she dared to look at the picture. A layer of dust and grime turned the entire picture a few shades darker. The beer had covered the entire lower half, warping the paint, and her bullet had successfully taken out a piece of the top half of the face. The only thing that remained was a single eye, gentle and warm on the canvas.

Her breath froze in her chest.

_No. Impossible. _

Elliot?

* * *

_Author's Note: Fear not, the Ben scenes are coming, I promise. _

_Hmm...this is where I usually beg for a headcount by way of reviews, yeah? Or not..._


	3. What's Done is Done

_Stop it._

Disjointed words thumped in her head with every pounding step that took her away. Jack trailed behind her, subdued, as though sensing her mood. He barked once, clamoring for her attention, but when she ignored him he fell into place behind her and didn't bother her again.

She had left as soon as she could after helping Linda get the rest of her things in order. She hadn't wanted to linger, hadn't wanted to ask Linda about the picture and the eye that looked so familiar.

_Stop it. _

It could have been anyone. Elliot wasn't the only man in Albion with those eyes, so earnest and eager in their gentle—

_Stop._

The skies were still an ugly grey. Anna didn't feel any rain, but she could see the scattered evidence of raindrops on the stones beneath her feet. She wished it was raining harder. She wished it was coming down in heavy sheets that blurred her vision and soaked her soul, as though it would somehow justify her internal turmoil.

She was only imagining things. Of course it wasn't his eye. It was all she could ever think of anymore so she was beginning to see him everywhere. She heard his voice as a whisper in a crowded market square, falling away as soon as she looked up. She felt his touch when she closed her eyes, saw his face on the faces of slain bandits she left to rot alongside the paths.

_Stop it stop it stop it._

Inside, she screamed at herself.

_Focus._

She paused at the corner of an alley, finally alone, and rested her forehead on the cool brick. She felt a dull spasm in her scar when she scraped it against the stone, but she didn't move. She slammed one fist halfheartedly on the wall beside her head.

_Stop_.

In her desire to forget him, she had become obsessed. She breathed slowly, focusing on nothing. She did not let her thoughts back to him until her breath was steady again. She could hear the rain now; drops splashed lightly on her shoulders.

_Calm…_

It _wasn't_ his eye, and so what if it was? What did it matter now if Linda had loved the same man as she? Should she demand an explanation from Linda? Open a wound that was obviously painful to Linda, and doubly painful if Anna was somehow right? There was nothing more she could do to help either of them. Elliot was gone, and dwelling on him was only making her crazy.

_So stop._

She pulled away from the wall, more desperately resolved. She would be cold, she would be detached, and she would forget him.

"I _will_ forget him." She forced herself to say it aloud, as though doing so would seal the promise. She closed her eyes and repeated it. "There is no Elliot."

"Elliot?" Ben's voice sounded at the top of a nearby set of stairs. She whirled around. "You talking to someone?" He descended the steps and peered around the corner.

"Just myself," she replied.

He shrugged. "Oh. Well I've been looking for you. Walter sent me to—" he paused again as he caught sight of her face. "Are you alright, Princess?"

It was more than just the scars, then. She scrubbed idly at her face, realizing what he saw. With the rain dribbling through her hair and down her face, she hadn't noticed the tears that had escaped. Her eyes were likely red and gaunt.

"I'm fine," she insisted, turning her eyes away so he couldn't see. "What does Walter want?"

Ben's brows furrowed, but he didn't pursue the matter. He could be a pest when he wanted to, but he knew when to back down.

"Town crier says Logan's giving a speech. Walter would stand out too much in that crowd, so he wants us to go. We should probably get going, unless you need to stop at the sewers for anything?"

She had everything she could need already. Her pistol was in her belt and the hilt of her sword poked above her shoulder through the hole she had sliced into her cloak. She fell wordlessly into step behind Ben and let him lead the way.

* * *

The rain became their ally. The castle courtyard was a sea of hats and bright parasols, and no one thought anything amiss about another hooded figure twisting through the crowds. There was nothing unusual about Ben's being there—a simple captain of the army there to hear his king's speech—but if she was recognized there would likely be hell. She thought she felt some gazes lingering curiously on her, but she kept her face down and followed.

The closer they pushed toward the balcony, the more crowded it became. Ben finally had to seize her hand to pull her through a particularly tight spot, but they finally emerged into a hole in the crowd directly underneath the balcony. It seemed that they had barely made it in time. They had only a few minutes of listening to the idle speculation around them before Logan appeared.

Had his eyes always looked so dark and tired? Did she simply imagine that his face had grown gaunter? How different he seemed now from the brother she had once loved.

"Traitors take many faces," he began.

Anna pulled her hood tighter around her face, twisting the material in front of her face so that she only watched him with a single, unidentifiable eye. His eyes passed over her as quickly as the rest of the assembled crowd, but she couldn't help but feel that his words were directed at her.

"Traitors live among us, masquerading as friends and family. They would have you believe they love you before they tear your world apart. They would have you believe their cause is noble."

There was a sudden ripple of commotion; men had just appeared on one of the lower staircases. There were two guards escorting someone whose identity was obscured by a potato sack over his head. The prisoner's hands were tied behind his back, but his posture was proud and erect.

"They may wear many masks…they may appear in the guise of a neighbor, or a friend, or even a loyal soldier dedicated to the crown of Albion." Logan pointed rigidly and the guards removed the potato sack. "This is the face of a traitor."

"Swift." Ben stirred beside her, reaching instinctively for his gun. Anna reached out for his hand to hold him back before he could draw attention to them, but his exclamation was lost in Logan's roar.

"Major Swift, once a decorated soldier and honored citizen. He was apprehended trying to recruit loyal men to his rebel cause."

The crowd didn't move, already prepared for what they knew would happen next. They had seen it before. It didn't make it any easier for Anna to have to watch it—unwanted memories of a similar day not so long ago surging through her recently purged mind—and it certainly did nothing to comfort Ben, whose shout was drowned in the crack of the gunshot. He reached for his rifle again, but Anna intercepted his hand. She had a firm grip on both the butt of his rifle and his other arm, realizing she might have to hold him back from jumping on the guard who had pulled the trigger.

"Please, Ben, not yet," she pleaded.

Logan was already moving away, his demonstration over. There were sad murmurs, but none so fierce as the man beside her, frantically trying to decide whether he should listen to his gut or his princess.

Finally, after several agonizing minutes, her voice seemed to reach him. He stopped struggling, but she felt his arm grow rigid beneath her hands. Logan was gone, the guards were hauling Major Swift's limp body back up the stairs, and the crowd was dissipating.

"Let's go," she said again, tugging on his arm. He looked down at her hand on his arm as though only noticing it for the first time. His voice was hollow, sucked of its usual buoyancy.

"We need to tell the others," he agreed, but he didn't move until Anna seized his hand to tow him through the still crowded courtyard. He didn't recover his feet until Bowerstone castle was well behind them. He took control when they reached Industrial to guide her through the streets that were still so unfamiliar to her.

Ben had the mind of a soldier, whose life depended on being able to remember strategies and layouts even when comrades were falling around him and the battle seemed to be impossible. He would get them back to where they needed to be. For Anna, however, her daily paths had always been laid out in carefully plotted lists delivered by Jasper each morning. On the best days she still had trouble finding her way back to Page's sewers, and her mind was further clouded with worry for her friend and disgust with her brother.

Logan had to be stopped, no matter what it took. She was done watching him sacrifice other peoples' lives.

* * *

_A/N: I was going to wait to upload this chapter until I had the next one finished, but I didn't. Obviously. Anyway, NEXT chapter is where the romance starts to kick in, I promise. _


	4. In Vino Veritas

The sunset was a disgusting color in the smoke of Bowerstone's fumes, and the air smelled just as appetizing. Ben's voice had returned, if not his enthusiasm, and he had recovered enough of his decorum to apologize regally to Anna when he abandoned her at the entrance to the sewers. He disappeared into the descending murk of the city, and she into the hole that she had called home for the past few days. She couldn't imagine a gloomier homecoming.

Walter and Page were still gone. She wandered through the halls, not knowing what else to do. She didn't want to resign herself to bed just yet. Tomorrow's torments—whatever they may be—hovered on the other end of sleep. Worse, Elliot waited there. She could make a million promises to herself in the daylight, but she knew it would take a miracle to chase him from her dreams.

She found herself back in the map room, where she knew Walter and Page would eventually return. She still needed to tell them what had happened to Swift. The candlelight flickered from the sconces on the walls, granting her enough light to flip through the books scattered over tables and on nearby shelves. Most of what she found was either too faded or too boring to read, but she scanned the titles anyway for anything that sounded interesting. She had all but forgotten Samuel's request for exotic titles.

She threw a few with potentials next to Jack's bed and fell into a nearby chair. She scratched idly at Jack's head on her lap and glanced around the room for something she might have missed when a sheet of paper on the table caught her eye. She pulled it from beneath the candlestick holding it in place and began to read:

_I said before that we soldiers told these stories so as not to miss home, but in truth I have never truly felt the sense of that word in any place I have visited, and certainly not in Gunk. Yet there it was that I was raised by my shop-keeping parents, who through no fault of their own often struggled to keep other things, such as shoes on our feet and food on our table. This being the case, my three elder brothers and I had no recourse but to find other sources of sustenance, money and entertainment. Despite my small hands, I was never the equal of my siblings in what constituted the main form of income for all Finns under the age of fifteen: the picking of pockets…_

Finns? So this was Ben? In spite of his admission of thievery, Anna couldn't help but laugh. She read on, and found that no matter how serious his confessions, he always managed to convey them in his lighthearted way. It was as though she could hear his voice in every word on the page.

_…All this accidental aiding and abetting won me the greatest gift I had ever received. For my eleventh birthday my criminal siblings bought me a beautiful pellet gun, and thus it was that I found my second talent: a rather surprising accuracy with firearms. It was not long before—_

"Ah, here you are." Walter ducked through the door, his expression grim. "I heard what happened," he said before Anna could even open her mouth. "All of Bowerstone has heard by now. Where's Ben?"

"I don't know. He brought me back here and ran off."

Walter shook his head. "Well, can't say I'm surprised. The Major was like a father to the boy." He nodded at the page in her hands. "So you've read a bit of it, then. He left that here for me to look over. Let's go, we need to find him before he does himself a mischief."

She set down the page in which Ben's real father was still trying to care of his family. She wondered where the rest of it was, and what else she was missing about the happy soldier's apparently painful past. What had happened between then and now that Ben had needed a surrogate father? Walter's anxious expression made her especially aware of how much she didn't know. She buckled on her sword and followed Walter.

Anna had always known Ben to be a bit hasty, perhaps, but she never would have thought of him as the type to do something dangerous or worrisome when he was upset. Then, she obviously didn't know him as well as Walter, but she had seen firsthand how shaken he was by Major Swift's death.

They searched every public building and peered down some of the shadier alleys in case Ben's 'mischief' was worse than Walter thought. They questioned anyone they could, but everything was closing for the night. No one took kindly to having to wait for them to peek inside the shops, and they certainly didn't appreciate Walter's door-to-door interrogations.

They were heading back to the sewers, wildly hoping that he might have gone home after all, when the lights of The Riveter's Rest flooded the corner in front of them. They had already searched there—it was the first place Walter had thought to look—but they hadn't seen him then. Hours had passed, and it was the only place still open. If he wasn't here, Walter would probably keep them up the rest of the night searching. Anna could sense his growing desperation beneath all his colorful muttering.

She let Walter lead the way inside to block peoples' view of her. She knew by now that her appearance—an oddly decorated woman with a sword poking above her shoulder—drew attention that she didn't need. Toadying cowards appealed to the promise of her protection, bandits were drawn to the small satchel of gold riding at her waist, and there were always the lewder men in such places who sought something else entirely from her. Those, she had to stop herself from hurting.

Walter scanned heads, but the tavern had grown crowded since they were last in. Anna didn't have his height or sharp gaze, but she looked anyway for any sign of their friend. She was about to give up when she caught a flash of a soldier's uniform under a slumped mess of blonde hair sitting at a darker corner of the bar with his backs to them. Walter clucked reprovingly to himself, but Anna could hear his relief. She followed in his wake through the sea of drunkards to where Ben sat alone.

His face was inches from the bar, unsuccessfully trying to shield himself from their gazes. Walter muttered something gruffly and snatched two stools from Ben's unconscious neighbors. He handed one to Anna, and she hoisted herself up on Ben's other side. She could see his pain even beneath the sheet of hair that swept across his face. He looked terrible.

"What're you doing here, Ben?" Walter growled. Ben couldn't ignore Walter—not when the giant man was just inches away from him—but he didn't offer an outright answer, either. He merely shrugged a shoulder and swirled his nearly empty tankard. Walter tried prodding him again. "We've got long days ahead of us and we'll need your trigger hand sober for it."

"You can take it, if you'd like," Ben finally answered. "Cut it off, but you'll have to take it as is, I'm afraid. It's a bit tipsy, but it'll still shoot well enough for you in a pinch." He dangled his arm in front of Walter, whose face was a mix of sympathy and firmness.

"You'd best take it now," Ben insisted. "It's only going to get drunker tonight if it stays here with me. But I can still drink without it; you can be sure of that. No?" he downed the last mouthful of his drink with his left hand—stubbornly proving his point—and removed his other from Walter's face to signal for another. As an afterthought, he lowered it slowly, watching as he flexed each finger.

"Guess I'd better start practicing that with the other hand too, eh?" he muttered to himself.

"Ben—"

"I'll be fine, Walter," Ben sighed, finally serious. "I'm not some dainty flower who'll faint under the weight of a mouthful of Albion Ale; Avo knows I've had enough practice in my life. Tomorrow I'll be yours again, hands intact and functioning and all, but just let me have this night, yeah? I need this." The last sentence was spoken as a muffled promise into his fresh tankard.

"I just don't want you getting into trouble, is all," Walter insisted, but he trailed off when it was obvious that Ben had nothing more to say. He had clamped his mouth shut and fixed his eyes loosely on the weathered brick wall in front of him, growing steadily oblivious to his concerned companions.

"I'll stay with him, Walter," Anna said quietly. "And I'll get him home safe when he's done."

"When _we're_ done, you mean," he said, summoning another drink before they could stop him. "If you stay it's not as my babysitter, but as my friend."

Walter looked suddenly uncertain. He glanced at Anna over Ben's head, but Anna could only nod reassuringly to him. She knew he could never really understand her reasons. Walter and Anna had learned to accept the string of increasing deaths with hollow resignation. Major Swift's execution was painful, but ultimately just another reason why they couldn't afford to slow down and grieve: the sooner they defeated Logan, the sooner the deaths would stop. For Ben, however, Swift's death was something more. For Ben, Major Swift was his Elliot, his sacrifice. If anyone could understand his pain in this moment, Anna was certain she could.

There was something else, too, though she wouldn't admit it to herself and certainly not to Walter. For all the pain in Ben's eyes, his expression was steadily slipping from agony to detached anger as he drank. If the ale could help her forget herself—Elliot, revolution, death, all of it—for even a few hours, it would be worth any price. She wanted to know that darker side of it: the medicine of oblivion.

Mercifully, Walter did not argue. He swallowed whatever retort was on his lips, accepting that nothing he could say would change their minds, and patted them both lightly on their backs. By the time Anna's drink arrived, Ben was already nearly halfway through his and Walter was gone.

"To the damnable necessity of sacrifice," Ben said, lifting his glass.

"To a future without it," Anna agreed, and they both drank.

* * *

As Anna had hoped, the burn offered immediate gratification, followed by the steady numbing of every feeling over the next few drinks. Logan had never let her have more than a glass or two of wine at dinner, though Ben gleefully assured her that Albion Ale was far better than mere wine when something needed forgetting. She began to feel lightheaded, but in the best imaginable way. No burdens, no responsibilities, no memories…she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so free.

Ben, too, had slipped back into the man she was used to. Whether it was the steady supply of ale, the prospect of company to share it with, or just feeling responsible for keeping royalty entertained, his mood—or at least his acceptance of the day's events—seemed to have lifted considerably. His tongue was at full speed once more, speaking freely and laughing easily. True to his character, he was constantly propelling the conversation in whichever direction suited his fancy, and they talked of everything from the silly to the serious and everything in between: of the secret lives of hobbes, the good and bad ideas of changing technology, and the grim future of Albion if they failed. He asked about her adventures and what it was like to live as a hero, clinging to every detail of the places she had been and the things she had seen.

"I'd like to ride a monorail someday," he said when Anna had finished describing the station and how it worked. "I mean, I've seen them, of course, but I didn't realize how popular it was becoming. Swift never let us take it, insisting that the familiar ways are best."

"Swift and Walter are the same, that way. Walter swears he'll never set foot in a station again, especially not after we saw it fall."

"I've always wanted to explore the world," he continued idly. "I did a bit of it, but I was always a little too busy with my…_unsavory_ line of work to enjoy it properly. We travel in the army, but we always have our specific duties and no time to explore. And ever since Swift had his falling out with Logan…well, let's just say the marshes aren't the most exotic place to spend a vacation."

He paused, frowning. Talking of Swift was turning his mind to bittersweet memories.

"He taught me what it was to be a man, you know," Ben muttered quietly. "A proper man, who can look back on his day with pride. He taught me to stand up for what I know to be right, to make an honest living with hard work, how to treat a real woman…" he chuckled to himself; a private joke. "No matter how tempted I was by my saltier habits, I always had Swift around to pound some sense into me." He silenced himself with a heavy mouthful of ale, staring blankly at the bar.

At that moment, Anna realized how little she knew of the hardships of common people. She didn't know what it was to be poor, or alone, or desperate—not like Ben knew, anyway. And his story was just one of many. She placed her hand lightly on his arm, not knowing how else to comfort him.

It was a moment before he seemed to feel it. He glanced at it, as though trying to decide what it was. He patted it weakly, a smile growing, disappointed with himself for slipping in front of her.

"Mind you, it wasn't without some resistance on my part. I remember once when Logan put us on a ship and sent us south. There was this tribe of women…" he blushed and glanced sideways at Anna, suddenly remembering that, while she had enjoyed his stories so far, there was only so much he felt he should share with a princess. Anna would have corrected him—she had overheard far worse by now just wandering through the streets—but he was already moving forward.

"But Swift taught me better than that," he amended hastily, and then laughed as he began to remember stories. "He tried for years to find me a proper wife, but his tastes were a bit more…domestic than mine. He tried throwing me at every demure lady, every angelic girl that we came across. We had quite a few arguments over my love life, but I don't want some dainty damsel to bear me children. I want someone independent; someone who can look after herself but wants me around anyway…someone strong willed who knows what she's after and isn't afraid to tell me if it's me."

He drank again, somewhat moodily, and Anna knew that he must be thinking of Page. Page was a leader and a rebel, decidedly independent and unabashedly outspoken about what she wanted.

_Unfortunately for Ben_, Anna thought wryly, _it's not him_.

Ben stirred his drink sulkily. "Be honest with me, Princess: does Page really despise me as much as she seems, or is she just being coy?"

_Page, coy?_ Anna didn't think the rebel knew how. Page was all brazen opinions and painful truth. She would probably rather cut off her own ears than have to listen to anyone suggest an alternative to her own stubborn plans.

"I think you should keep trying," she told him, not mentioning that she wanted him to keep trying because she liked seeing Page made uncomfortable.

Ben smiled a little, but he did not look convinced. "You women—" he shook his head. "—how are we ever supposed to figure out what you're really thinking or meaning? Would it kill you to give a forthright answer?"

Something tickled in Anna's brain, a vague memory of a similar question. Brown hair and eyes swam before her vision. Nameless, but she felt it was important somehow…she blinked, and it was gone. She shrugged at Ben, deliberately obscure.

"That's exactly what I mean," he said, slapping his hand on the table. "It's amazing how any man manages to rope a woman down." He sighed, smiling, and took another mouthful. "But what am I commiserating with you for? You're the enemy."

"You men aren't exactly as charming as you think you are," Anna remonstrated. "Am I really supposed to swoon every time I am propositioned in the middle of the street?"

"Ah, the things you'll hear in the glorious depths of Bowerstone. But I suppose you're right: it's unfair of me to hold all men up to my standard of wit and humor." He nudged her playfully. "But what can you really know about the trials of love? A palace raised princess like yourself, I bet you never had to worry about love or anything like that. Even before you were a hero, I'd bet you had men throwing themselves at your feet."

The face was back behind her eyelids, and she remembered. Even through the haze of Albion Ale, the face had a name.

_Elliot_.

Her smile must have slipped. Ben drew back, concerned. "What's the matter, Princess?"

She hadn't spoken to anyone of Elliot's death, not really. There were only a few people who knew the truth of his death and what it had cost her, and they weren't able to help her. Walter wasn't the sort of man with whom she could share such emotional turmoil and expect empathy, and while Jasper's advice was well meaning, it was obvious that he didn't know how to begin to comfort her. To them, her relationship with Elliot was just a fleeting romance; over now, and therefore not worth dwelling on. To the citizens of Albion, Elliot was nothing more than obscure gardener who had befriended the princess, if they had heard of him at all. The public news of his death was just another rumor, no different from the hundreds of other lives destroyed by Logan.

Who else could she talk to? Page? The idea was laughable for so many reasons. She had allies, yes, but no real friends; not since losing Elliot.

And then there was Ben: open, sincere, and concerned. He had shared his life, his dreams. He wanted to know what was wrong with her, and he would do anything he could to help. She didn't like the idea of baring her soul, but this burden was beginning to break her from the inside. She couldn't carry it herself anymore.

"He was my best friend. My only friend, really."

Ben listened in silence. His drink was forgotten, his hands just inches from hers if she needed them. She found that, once she had started, the words wouldn't stop. She told him everything: Logan, the choice he had given her, the last thing she saw in Elliot's eyes before he was taken away, fleeing that night before she could even grieve…

When she had finished, she stared down at the bar, hitching a shoulder up to shield herself from Ben's judgment. Her words, now floating in the bar, sounded especially cold, and she knew how they must sound to him: the princess, in whom everyone had placed their hopes, was a heartless witch who had condemned a friend to death.

"I should have tried harder," she insisted, misinterpreting his stony silence. "I should have—"

"This is what you've been carrying around with you for all these weeks?" He cut across her, angry. "This is what's been bothering you?"

She nodded. "I'm the one who killed him. I could have stopped—"

"Dammit, Princess, listen to me." He seized her shoulders, forcing her to face him. His tone was angry, and his face even more ashen and solemn than it had been after Major Swift's execution. "You did what you had to do; the only thing you _could_ do. You showed Logan that you are serious, and more importantly, you proved to Albion that you are serious. I know your heart is hurting, but don't you dare pretend that any of this is your fault. Logan killed him, killed Swift—all of them; not you."

He shook her slightly, fingers digging into her shoulders. "There aren't half a dozen men in this world who would have the guts to do what you did, and I promise you that the toughest of them'd be bawling into their pillows at night. A revolution isn't singing songs and holding hands; it's death, sacrifice and heartache."

His fingers relaxed a little now, no doubt hearing the truth in his own words meant for himself, but he did not release her shoulders. "I heard about the kid dying, but I never realized how close you were, or that Logan had put the decision on you. Put your hurt and anger where it belongs. You are not the one to blame. You are the one who has shown you're trying to help us, and you're not going to be much use if you let this guilt eat at you, alright?"

She nodded, breathing weakly. He loosened his grip entirely, but she could still feel the sensation of his fingers in her shoulders. He raised one calloused hand to her face, his thumb splayed across her cheek.

"None of us are ever truly alone. Not if we don't want to be," he said.

She took a deep breath and nodded again. He drew back, leaving a cold sensation where his hand had been, and Anna was surprised to see a tear glistening on his thumb. He watched until it ran down his hand and disappeared. Anna waited in silence, though the noise continued around them, until Ben wrapped her hands around her mug.

"To death, sacrifice and heartache," he said, raising his glass for another toast. "To the fickle wanderings of love that we can't begin to control—" he paused, and offered her a sympathetic smile, "—and to a life where that love can grow without hindrance."

Anna's reaction was unconscious by now, but she no longer felt the burn of the ale when she tipped it down her throat. The tavern around her was muffled and grey, and she felt as though she was seeing it all from a distance. She listened only halfheartedly as Ben began talking again. She felt cold and frightened, and her thoughts echoed in her empty mind, but she felt a smile creeping across her lips.

Empty, yes, but _liberated_.

Oblivion had never felt so sweet.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so not as romantic as I had originally planned it being, but a definite turning point. Thanks to you reviewers and everyone else who has stuck with it for this long. This chapter came quicker than it would have otherwise!_


	5. Fades to Black

Anna muttered colorfully under her breath as her shot veered to the side of the target's center. Again. But she did not lower her gun or shift her sight; she still had two shots left. She forced herself to breathe slowly and cleared her mind of distractions: the breeze, the glare of the late afternoon sun, the chuckling of Ben behind her…everything but the target, which seemed to be growing fuzzier with every second she waited.

Her next shot was slightly better—nearer to the center, though separated from her last hole only by a few fibers of the card—but her last shot missed entirely as their ship struck a particularly rough wave at the exact moment she fired. She had become familiar enough with the ship to stay on her feet as the timber shuddered beneath her, but her arms flailed in spite of her best efforts and her bullet was released somewhere in the direction of the clouds that marked the distant horizon.

Ben laughed openly then. He stood just behind her, rifle held casually on his shoulder, waiting for his turn. Anna grudgingly stepped aside and Ben took her place, swinging his rifle down as he stepped into position.

The movement seemed so effortless for him, Anna wondered if he even thought about it anymore. Where she had spent long seconds agonizing over her grip and trying to steady her hands, Ben needed only a few quick moments to find a solid stance and a comfortable line of vision. He fired four shots in quick succession. When the smoke settled, the winner was obvious. There were Ben's shots: a neat little cluster of them. Not quite dead center, but obviously closer than Anna's three sporadic holes. He lowered his gun, grinning at her all the while.

Anna scowled and stepped forward with her reloaded pistol. The competition was over, but she wasn't ready to quit just yet. She wanted to prove to both herself—and more importantly, Ben—that she deserved her Hero title. Ben stepped back, understanding what she was trying to do, but he refused to wipe the smug, superior smile from his face.

Bowerstone Industrial was three days behind them, and they were glad to be rid of it. The air was cleaner here, and it salty edge was invigorating after so long spent smothered under the weight of the city's dark fumes. Pristine clouds followed them by day, and the stars hung heavy around them at night. Their spirits were high, but there was one part of Bowerstone that they couldn't help missing: its distractions.

The ship Ben had found was small enough that the three of them could manage it by themselves. So, while they enjoyed not having to worry about unfamiliar sailors, there came a point where even Ben's chatter wasn't enough to fill the silence. There was no pub at sea—though in furnishing the supplies, Ben had made certain that several barrels of Albion Ale found their way aboard—and no other sort of entertainment to wile away the hours when the ship did not require their attention.

True to his nature, Ben had at least brought cards and other games of chance, though they proved to be little fun when he refused to take Anna's money if he won, which was more often than not. Fortunately, they had found a more efficient use for the cards, first as target practice, though it had turned quickly into a competition. Since he still refused to accept anything of Anna's when he won, Ben demanded stories instead. So while Walter kept an eye on their course, Ben and Anna kept themselves practicing.

She fired, leaving another erratic hole in the card's surface. This time a curse slipped freely from her lips, and it took a moment before she remembered to blush at her language. She had been spending too much time in the company of Walter and Ben.

"You're doing it all wrong, Princess."

Ben set his rifle down and reappeared at her side. Anna's focus was still fixed forward, on the gun in her hands and the target across the deck, but she felt Ben hovering over her shoulder and heard him close at her ear. His voice was calm, and felt as natural as her own conscience speaking to her.

"Stop pulling on the trigger. Press it, as if it were a grassy field and you just lying in it. Gently, as you would treat a lady's—" he paused, probably to blush. Anna's focus wavered for a moment, unable to stop the chuckle. "As gentle as a lady's touch," he amended quickly. "Don't think of the target, don't think of your gun, but focus."

She took a breath, trying to absorb his advice. Another shot, another hole. Closer this time, but still not where she had been hoping. It was low, off, _wrong_. She scowled again.

"You're anticipating the shot too much." Ben's voice sounded at her ear again. She stilled her mind, trying both to listen and to clear her mind of everything, including his voice. Suddenly she felt his hand on her shoulder, and she was aware of just how close Ben was behind her. His voice tickled in her ear, and he lightly drummed his fingers on her shoulder blade. How could she focus with him doing that so close behind her?

_Keep pressing keep pressing keep pressing. _

Her finger moved to the trigger. She thought she pressed too hastily, distracted by Ben's presence, but when the wind blew the smoke away she saw a new hole within the outline of the card's center heart. She spun around, both pleased with herself and ready to admonish Ben for trying to distract her.

"You see?" he asked before she could say anything. "I kept you distracted so you wouldn't anticipate the backfire, and see how much better you did?"

Even when he was being a nuisance, he was trying to help. No wonder Page was so easily frustrated with him.

"Thank you," Anna managed grudgingly, and conceded defeat for the day. She sank onto a nearby stool and began to disassemble her gun to clean it. Ben decided to take advantage of her rags and tools to work on his own rifle, and Anna was hardly surprised when he easily sped past her tired pace. His fingers may have been larger than hers, but they were deft and worked quickly, well familiar with the intricacies of his work.

As he had promised Walter back in The Riveter's Rest, he was back to his old self, no traces of the Ben who had been so heartbroken over life just a few short days ago. He was all cheerful business, humming quietly to himself as he worked. He finished well before her and sat back with a contented sigh.

"Now then, if I'm not much mistaken, I think it's my turn to hear a story."

Anna frowned. She was running out of stories for the demanding soldier.

"It's _always_ your turn," she groaned, setting aside her pistol. She glanced at the two cards still clinging to the plank they had hung them from. Even with her near bullseye, Ben's card was obviously better.

"What's the point of being a hero if I can't even out-shoot a common soldier?" she wondered dismally.

"That's Captain Common Soldier to you," he corrected, but then leaned his arms across his chest thoughtfully. "Being a hero doesn't mean being some invincible force, but an icon of all that is ultimate," he said. "I don't think it has anything to do with being the best or strongest. Being a hero means…your blood boils hotter than ours. You feel things that the rest of us can't begin to understand, utilize energies that most of us don't even know exists." He gestured widely at her person, where the faint traces of her will lines decorated her skin. They were almost invisible in the full daylight, like thin trails of water that the sun caught just right.

She considered Ben's words, slightly jealous of how easily he found words for something that had eluded her for months now. She was discovering quickly that, while Ben's comments tended to be more lighthearted in nature, he had a tendency to slip effortlessly between playful and serious, and his somber remarks held more valuable weight than she had thought him capable of.

"You seem to have put a lot of thought into this."

"I did," he admitted sheepishly. "I used to play at being a hero all the time, as a small boy pretending with my brothers. I envied their adventures, their intuition. I used to wish every day that I would become one."

Anna glanced at the cards again, considering them for a different reason entirely.

"I would be willing to bet that you have some hero blood in you," she said slowly. "You're more honorable than Reaver, anyway, and twice the marksman of anyone else I've ever seen."

She saw his sincere smile before he could hide it, but he quickly changed the subject. "Sneaky princess, making me talk about myself. But go on; finish telling me about that prank you pulled on Jasper when you were eight."

A smile tugged at her lips. She hadn't meant to start telling him that story. It had simply slipped out after a tad too much Albion Ale, and Ben had been pestering her for the conclusion ever since. She took a breath and began the story again—a story she hadn't told anyone else in a very long time.

Since the night she and Ben had shared their sorrows at the bar, something had changed between them. It was no longer a partnership of convenience—in which she was the princes and he her loyal soldier—but a strong, unspoken friendship. She had found a companion in Ben, someone she trusted with her self and her secrets and whom she knew could understand her struggles when no one else could.

At times, though, she couldn't help but feel that she was taking advantage of his friendship by dumping all her worries on him when he was so hesitant to burden her with his own hardships. While he seemed to have grown more comfortable around her, the soldier in him couldn't simply forget that she was still his future ruler: his needs would always be second to hers.

Anna hated that it had to be like that. He had single-handedly pushed back the guilt that promised to consume her. He had become her grounding force when her memories threatened to run away with her or when a lingering emotion conjured Elliot's face. She didn't need more loyal subjects fawning over their princess, just a friend. In any case, she hadn't felt like a princess in a very long time.

"I need your hands, the both of you," Walter told them, emerging from the engine room. He shut the door on the mechanical groaning behind them. "The engine's pulling a stunt tonight, doesn't want to get started."

Ben and Anna both sighed. They tried to use the sails as much as possible during the daytime to save their fickle engine, but they liked having it on at night. Only problem was, it was almost always acting up on them.

"I'll get it," Ben said, standing first.

Anna looked up at the sky, suddenly realizing how late it had become. It was time for evening chores already. They departed for their respective tasks, Ben to the engine room and Walter to the galley. Anna was left alone on deck.

No matter how much she protested, the other two always conspired to give her the easiest duty. Tonight all the had to do was check fittings and make sure everything was secure—an easy enough task, given that Ben and Walter took care of it themselves often enough throughout the day.

Not surprisingly, she was done well before the others. Normally she hated the idleness because it made her feel especially useless, but tonight she didn't find herself minding it so much. It was a night for lingering and she took full advantage. The sun was setting in their wake, nearly on the horizon now, and everything was cloudy and grey in the twilit glow. For a moment she felt alone in the world—except for the occasional outburst of language and name-calling from the direction of the engine room—and solitude had never felt more glorious.

The moment was fleeting. There was a large black spot sneaking up on them from just outside the trail of burning sunlight. It was still too far away to make out details, but it was clearly moving fast.

"Ben? Walter!"

They must have heard the urgency in her voice, because they appeared immediately. It took a moment before she was able to make herself coherent, and the other ship was doing a good job of keeping itself out of sight, but when Anna finally made herself coherent, their faces were ashen and grim.

Ben disappeared back to the engine room without another word, desperate to get them moving fast. The other ship was obviously taking full advantage of the available technology to catch up to them, and they needed to even the odds.

"It could be friendly, right?" Anna asked quietly. "It could be nothing."

"Do you really believe that?" Walter asked.

His tone only solidified Anna's answer: _no_. It didn't matter what good she did in the world, it would always be overshadowed by the staggering number of people who would benefit if she were captured or killed. There was always a chance it was nothing, of course there was, but it was a chance they would be better off not taking.

They couldn't see any flag, but it had come from the direction of Albion. Logan had all but eradicated private commercial sailors, and there was only one man who had explicit knowledge of the sea and the ability to come and go without the king's permission; or worse, on the king's express command.

_Reaver_.

Walter seemed to be thinking the same thing. His face was set in a fierce frown and his eyes narrowed in thought; Anna could see the intensity at work behind his eyes. She tried several times to say something, but each time his expression stopped her. She tried to follow his gaze, searching for any distinguishing feature on the approaching ship. Just when it seemed that it might be close enough, it was plunged into dusk, swallowed by the retreating sunlight.

There was a hum from the engine room. Ben was making progress, but not enough. With every wasted second, the other ship drew nearer.

Anna saw the cannons just a split second before Walter. He seized her hand and yanked her away from the side as the first shot whistled above their heads.

"Jump, Princess. Ben!" Walter was roaring, but his voice was drowned by the deafening crash of cannonball hitting water on the other side of the ship.

The shots were flying thicker now, and the distance between the ships was closing. Flashes of gunpowder lit the air like a frenzied electric storm. There was no time to think. Walter was close on her heels, chasing her to the edge of the deck. He scooped a cowering Jack from behind some stacked crates and threw him into the water.

Anna could feel the ship splintering and groaning as the cannons found their marks. The upper sails had caught fire, and the reflection danced on the waves beneath Anna as she leaned over the rail preparing to jump.

There was another loud crash behind them. The mast had been struck. It swung down, landing over the doors to the galley and engine room. Ben still hadn't come out.

"Ben!"

The vision of the mast and the doors disappeared, obscured by a thick cloud of smoke in the mast's wake.

"He'll come, Princess. Go."

Her arm was seized again, rougher this time, and Walter hoisted her over the edge and released her into the water.

Her instantly frozen limbs clawed frantically above her head, seeking the surface, but it took a few moments before she was able to find it again. But she saw the glowing trail of flames above, felt the water shift as Walter jumped in after her, and with a last kick her head broke the surface.

"We have to get away from here," Walter said.

"But Ben—"

"He'll be fine, go."

She commanded her limbs to swim, but couldn't help glancing back. The flames had consumed their entire ship now, lapping eagerly at the old timber, but the other ship seemed to be retreating already. Anna paused in the water. Was it over?

"Blast, Princess, swim!"

Walter's voice again, angry and fearful. He had gotten ahead of her, but he turned around to come back.

"But the ship—"

She never finished. There was a final deafening roar and Anna was thrown backwards through the water. Her last image was a blinding blast of stars before darkness consumed everything.

* * *

"Ben!"

A distant echo of a familiar voice. Excited barking. Something wet on her cheek. Water and sand flowed freely from her eyes, caking them shut.

"Ben Finn!"

Something sharp digging into her side. More painful to move it. She shifted lightly to one side, just enough to relieve the pressure.

"Ben?"

Walter continued calling for Ben, his voice growing closer. She opened one eye gingerly, wincing against the sudden sunlight and unleashed sand.

"Walter."

Her voice was a raspy croak, but Walter heard. He was by her side instantly, his shadow shielding her from the harsh light.

"Here, Princess. Drink this." Gentle hands tilted her head back and she felt a flagon pressed against her mouth. A thin stream of water trickled down her face and into her mouth, soothing her cracked throat.

Feeling returned gradually to her limbs. She pushed herself up slowly and Walter took a step back.

"What happened?" Her voice was still cracked and raw, but less so.

"A piece of flying timber caught you, nearly took you down. But Jack found us a empty barrel big enough to hold you and I up. We kinda drifted for awhile, then Jack must have smelled something he liked because he took off. I followed him as long as I could keep up until I fell asleep, and when I woke up there was this stretch of land not too far ahead here." He patted her gently on the shoulder, smiling. "Maybe that dog of yours isn't such a dumb mutt."

She smiled too. Jack's enthusiasm was a constant point of debate between them. But just as quickly, her smile slipped.

"Ben?"

Walter shook his head. "I've been all up and down this stretch of beach. There's no sign of him."

Anna sat up fully, ignoring the pain.

"He's a strong swimmer," Walter assured her, interpreting her sudden sobriety. "He'll be fine."

Anna nodded, not wanting to ask the other questions spinning in her head for fear of depressing them both. Had Ben even made it off the ship? Could he have found his way to the land without Jack?

She trailed silently behind Walter, unable to stop the stream of questions. She dared to hope that maybe Walter had just missed him, but there's no way he could have. There was nothing to the beach, a simple stretch of sand with just a few hidden corners. It was strewn with rocks, and split by a small freshwater stream that disappeared into a deep overhang.

"Walter, did you check in there?"

His face fell. "Haven't been in there yet, no. Caves…" He trailed off. Anna had already taken a few tentative steps in. She knew Ben wouldn't be that far inland, but they had to check everywhere and there was nowhere else to go. Walter didn't like it, but he knew there was nothing else.

He paused on the edge of the cave, just where the sunlight stopped. Walter hesitated behind her, waiting, summoning his courage.

"Balls!"

His voice echoed deep, not boding well for the journey ahead of them. Several steps ahead of Walter already, Anna could only smile to herself.

They continued mostly in silence after that, broken only by the steady padding of their footsteps and Walter's occasional outbursts of displeasure. Anna had stopped listening, focused only on navigating the long tunnel. She didn't know how long they had been walking before there seemed to be a light around the corner ahead.

"About time," Walter muttered behind her.

But as they drew closer they realized there was something wrong with the light. The color was off, more sinister. Anna rounded the corner, Walter close behind her, and saw a pulsing red circle of light in the middle of a vaulted room. Eyes adjusted by now to the gloomy light of the cave, it only took a few moments for Anna to see the bones in the tattered scraps of clothing that circled the light.

"What in bloody hell…"

Anna hesitated on the edge of the room, nerves creeping under her skin. She could hear Walter still behind her, muttering steadily about spooks and unnatural demons. It was Jack who barreled forward, barking excitedly.

"Jack, no."

Anna took a few steps forward, but the dog was far from listening. He had reached the circle—unharmed—and was sniffing at the remains around its edge. Walter clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go, Princess. Maybe one of these sorry souls will have some information about how to get out of here."

_If they knew the way out, would they have died here? _Anna wondered, but did not ask the question aloud. Walter was uneasy enough about having to be in the cave, and she didn't want to think about the obvious answer.

Walter stopped at the first body, his face that of a soldier's again as he rummaged determinedly through the dusty pockets. Anna, however, went straight to Jack, who, having done his duty in pointing out the faded scraps of paper, turned his attention happily to the bones instead. She kept a wary eye on the red circle, making certain not to venture closer to it than could be helped.

"I found something. A note." Anna said, cringing as she realized how much her voice seemed to fill the hollow room. It made her next words sound especially ominous. "It speaks to us still. Darkness incarnate. We know now we can never escape it."

A sudden draft of air on her neck, or was it her imagination? Either way, she shivered. To her surprise though, Walter chuckled, leafing through the pages of a small book.

"Mad, these people. Bloody poets. None of this makes any sense. Here, listen to this," he paused, cleared his throat, preparing himself for mock theatrics. "Luminous spirits of the sands, impart daybreak and gleam under a quiet moon."

Anna started to smile, Walter's mood oddly infectious, but they both choked on their laughter when the red circle vanished as though it had never been. Anna could see stairs leading down now, deeper than the light stretched, and a definite breath of air this time.

She ventured to the edge, waiting. Ages seemed to pass and nothing else happened. Walter was by her side, dangling a foot experimentally over the first step.

"Do you think…?"

But he never finished the question. It was Jack again, excited by the adventure and oblivious to the tension, who raced happily down the stairs. Unharmed.

_Damn that dog_. But the way was clear, and there was nowhere else to go. Silently, they descended.

* * *

_A/N: I know we all know what happens next, but there's no skipping the crawler. One chapter, I promise, and we'll be back to the good stuff. _


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